


Have Yourself A Merry Little Chris-mas

by mickeym



Category: Popslash
Genre: Christmas, First Time, Holiday, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2002-12-05
Updated: 2002-12-05
Packaged: 2017-10-09 02:05:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,631
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/81798
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mickeym/pseuds/mickeym
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Chris gets an unexpected, but special, gift for Christmas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Have Yourself A Merry Little Chris-mas

You don't want to answer the knock at the door. Whoever it is should just go the fuck away until say, January first. Or, at the very least, December twenty-sixth. Don't mess with a man and his brooding, especially not this time of year.

And the last time you checked, it was just past midnight, December twenty-fifth.

Merry fucking Christmas.

You really don't want to answer the door. It won't be who you want it to be, and you'd rather stay nicely comfortable on your couch, scotch in hand, depressing country Christmas music spinning on your stereo.  Depressing _and_ country because _he_ gave you the CD, when you asked him what he was listening to, just before you drove him to the airport.

_"What the hell is that, dude?"_

_"'Ricky Van Shelton Sings Christmas',"_ he smiled, eyes crinkled up just a little. Nothing like JC did, but still cute. Too cute. _"He has a good voice. You'd probably like it."_

_"Dork. I'm sitting Christmas out this year. Not in the mood."_ You'd only been partially kidding. Usually you liked the holiday, but—not this year. Too much distance between you and the other guys, everyone off in different directions. Even your own family was scattered, doing different things for the most part. You wanted to blame it on Dani – and did, for the most part, but the truth was, breaking up with her hadn't really hurt, because you weren't in love with her. She was a good friend, and a convenient cover/excuse, but, that was it.

He snarked at you then, something you blocked out, listening only to the deep, slow words for the sound, and handed you the CD with a Look. _"You need to listen to it, Chris. Just once, okay?"_

_"Yeah, sure. Whatever."_

You've played nothing else in the last twenty-four hours.

Track seven. Please Come Home for Christmas.

It might be easier if you actually _told_ him, so he'd know he was supposed to stay, or come back, or whatever. But you're a chickenshit, too scared to fuck up a good friendship, and so unable to open your mouth to say a word about it.

They're knocking again, and for just a second you imagine it's someone from your past who's dead, and coming back to haunt you. Scrooge, a la Christmas 2000. Maybe Bill Murray is hiding around here somewhere. You raise your glass in a silent toast to Scrooges everywhere, and shout toward the door, "Go away."

You drop your glass on the floor when Lance yells back, "open the damn door, you freak."

It actually takes you a minute to make your brain process the words, then to make your legs work, getting you up off the couch. By that time, Lance is rattling the door handle, muttering not-quite-understandable things on the other side of your door.

You yank the door open, still not sure you're not imaging things. Lance is standing there, eyes snapping green fire, mouth pursed in that expression that means he's irritated. Some of that fades as you look at him. "What're you doing here, Bass? This doesn't look like Mississippi to me."

"Which is good, 'cos you're definitely not my momma." The frown shifts to a smile before he shoulders past you, a carryall bag over his shoulder. You glance out into the night before closing your door, but none of your neighbors seem to have been fazed by the lunatic pounding on your door at midnight, so, good. He drops the bag then leans against the wall, watching you. It makes your belly clench, makes the hair on the back of your neck prickle, and you scrub your hand through it. A little longer, and you're going to do the dreds again.

"Um, okay, so—why're you _here_, and not at home?"

Lance shakes his head and sighs, takes a couple steps toward you. "You don't get it, do you? I went to Mississippi…and then I _came_ home."

"Uh…huh?" You know you must be dreaming. Or drunk. Because even though Lance's mouth is moving – and you _are_ paying attention this time – you don't understand what he's saying.

He steps closer, then, and you take a step backward, hitting the wall. You can't see anything but apple-green eyes, darkened with amusement…and something else. "Not the brightest bulb in the box tonight, are you?" Another step presses him against you and you shiver, full body, skin prickling with emotion, with anticipation. "I figure if I wait for you to say something, we'll both be old…or dead."

"Hey—"

"Chris." He cuts you off with one word, with a look, eyes dark, glittering oddly in the dim light. "I get it, okay? And—I feel the same. Way."

You feel like he's sucker punched you, because you can't catch your breath. Can't stop the tingling sensation streaking over your skin. It feels too tight, too hot, like it'll crack and peel if you shift or move at all. "Lance—really? I mean—"

"Really." He smiles, just a little, then touches your face, slides his fingers through your hair before brushing his mouth across yours, once, twice, then pressing harder, licking at your lips, at the seam between them.

If it's a dream you don't ever want to wake up. You slide your hands up his chest, loop your arms around his neck and pull him in closer, wondering if you could crawl inside him somehow.

His kisses taste like orange juice and vodka, with a sharp peppery taste beneath that. Over all of it is the sensation of warmth, of comfort, of sex and passion and lust and love, and a hunger you've never quite felt, never had aimed at you. You shiver and press closer, groan when he presses you hard against wall, one thigh pushed between your legs.

You kiss until your head is swimming, until you can't breathe and don't care. Your lips sting where he's bitten at them, then licked and sucked the hurt away. Your mouth feels swollen, hot, your skin sensitive to the slightest touch. You ache, you want him so bad, and can't believe he's here, touching you, whispering dark, secret things into your ear. Things that make your heart pound and your cock throb hotly behind your sweats. When Lance touches you, fingers stroking deftly, cupping and outlining you behind the fabric you growl and arch against his hand, then reach to touch him, shuddering when his voice drops an octave, and he rasps, "harder" against your ear.

You're happy to oblige him, squeezing through his jeans until he groans and bites your neck, hips doing a shimmy you were sure only Justin or JC could pull off. Your hips are snapping in a rhythm you can't quite control, and it feels _so_ fucking good you want to scream, but—

"Not against the wall," you pant, pulling back a little and pushing against his chest. Lance blinks once at you, like he's not sure he's hearing you right. You touch his face, stroke your thumb across his mouth, wide, full, lips a little swollen. "Not the first time, dude."

H nods slowly, then kisses your thumb. "Yeah. I, uh—" and then he blushes. You would swear to it on a stack of bibles.

"Lance?"

"I, um. Didn't really mean to come in and—y'know."

You grin, a little of the humor of the situation sinking in. "Seduce me? Pin me against my wall and freak me?"

You get a whap against the head for that, then a quick kiss. "Yes, to the seduction. No to the pinning-and-freaking-against-the-wall thing." He smirks. "I have some standards, Kirkpatrick."

You snort. "Coulda fooled me, dude." You gesture at the bag he dropped on the entryway tile. "What happened to the three bags I helped you carry?"

Unless you were mistaken, he flushed again. "It was kind of…a last minute decision to come back here. And, um. I need to call home and tell momma I won't be there for dinner."

"Dude. You didn't even tell your mom you were coming back here? Where the hell does she think you're at?"

Lance tugs on your hand, pulling you back into the living room where Ricky what'shisname was still singing on the stereo. "She probably thinks I'm driving around looking at lights, which was what I said I was gonna do." He shrugs and sits down on the couch, pulling you with him. What a hardship to land, sprawling, on top of him. "I did look," he says, tracing your face with one finger. "Drove around for an hour, trying to decide what to do. Finally said fuck it, and called the travel agent, said I didn't care which airline or how much, just find me a ticket going back to Orlando tonight."

"Wow. Lance Bass spent _money_ on _me_?" You kiss his finger, then bite the tip. "I'm impressed as hell, dude."

"You should be. I could've practically _bought_ a plane, for what that ticket cost me." But he's grinning, that snarky, shit-eating grin you love so much, so you figure he's cool. He wouldn't've done it if he didn't want to.

"C'mere." You tug on him, and shift backward, pulling so he settles over you, resting his weight on his arms. He's still hard; you can feel him hot and pulsing against your thigh. That's fine, you are too. You loop your arms over his neck again, draw him down against you for a kiss. Just a light brush of your mouth over his, but he follows you, licking, and then it's—slick, hot, a sexy glide of tongue-against-tongue, teeth nipping at tender flesh. You hook one leg around the back of his and wriggle upward, smiling against his mouth when he growls.

"Chris, fuck—" He grinds down against you and it's so good. Too good. You're not sure this was the best idea, dry humping on the couch, because it occurs to you you'd really like to _feel_ him, skin-to-skin—and then he shoves back, straddling your waist, and yanks at your t-shirt. "Off. Now."

"Bossy bitch," you mutter, but tug it up over your head. "Yours too, dude. Not gonna be nude alone."

"Uhhuh." But he skims it up over his head, and you catch your breath in surprise, because—holy fuck, when did Lance start having a six-pack? You reach out a hand and trace over tight abs, ruffle though soft, springy hair, stroke around small, pink nipples, grinning when they pucker up into tight nubs. Lance does the same to you, fingers combing through the thicker tangle of hair on your chest, teasing around your nipples until you're ready to scream from the light, too light touches. "Sexy."

"Hah." But you feel like it, with the random, reverent touches he's giving you. He gives you a wicked smile and scoots backward, leans in and kisses your jaw, your throat, licking downward, and ohhh—when his mouth closes over your left nipple and sucks, so gently, you grunt and buck upward. His hands settle on your hips, holding you steady while he licks and sucks, teasing back and forth until you're panting, fingers threaded through his too-short hair, trying to guide him. "Lance—"

"Mmmm." Wicked, wicked tongue on your boy. It dances like it has a mind of its own, slicking over your nipples, then downward, wetting you down, goosebumps rising when cool air meets hot, damp skin. As Lance moves back he pulls your sweats with him, and you lift up so the material comes off easily. You're embarrassingly hard, cock curving upward toward your belly, the head flushed and damp. He smiles and reaches for you, and it's your turn to flush, feeling surprisingly awkward for reasons you don't understand. "Chris?"

"I—" His face is solemn when he looks at you, eyes dark and understanding. "I don't want it to be weird, y'know? This is—it could be."

"It won't," he says softly, stroking you gently. Such a soft touch, but it spirals through you, ripples growing large and wide like the ripples in a puddle when a rock's tossed in. You feel each ripple touch against your nerves, against your skin, feel the bubbles begin in your blood. "I swear it won't, Chris. I—I've wanted it for too long." And he's sitting there, your cock in his hand, his hair all mussed, his face flushed and skin ruddy with sweat and arousal, and you know he's right. It won't be. Nothing that feels as right as this could possibly be wrong or awkward or weird. He strokes you once more, a slow stroke, his fingers curling tightly around you, and you let out a small sound, watch him smile. "Turn over."

You reach out and run your fingers over the waistband of his jeans. "Take these off."

"I'm gonna." His fingers linger, brushing over you, until you roll, moving onto your stomach. The friction of upholstery makes your stomach clench; when Lance settles on top of you, you arch upward, then downward, hissing at the contact. You can feel him, hot and hard against you, small flickers of moisture as he rubs against the back of your thighs. His mouth brushes against your ear, your neck, his voice low and rumbly, like thunder. "Open your legs, Chris."

Ohh, god. You move, making space for him, groaning when the head of his cock slides between your thighs, butts up against the back of your balls. Your cock is wet and hot against your belly, and the feel of it rubbing against the couch makes you dizzy, because the sensation is so intense. Like you haven't had sex in…as long as you haven't had sex. "Jesus, Lance—"

"Feels good," he groans, his voice all deep and porn-y, and you remember teasing him about it, about the sounds he made jerking off in the back of the bus sometimes, when you knew he thought no one knew. He thrusts, slowly, then a little faster, biting at your neck when you squeeze your thighs tighter together. "Chris—"

"Just, god, yeah, like that—" Oh, so good. Him fucking against you, your dick rubbing against the couch. Delicious friction all around. "God, Lance—"

He makes the most incredible sounds, low and thick, like his voice is honey oozing over you. Just hearing him makes your blood boil, even if he wasn't plastered against your back, sweaty skin to sweaty skin. He licks at the droplets gathered at the nape of your neck, then bites you, and you buck upward, back against him, hissing and yowling like a cat in heat. He bites again, thrusting harder, faster, until he's fucking your thighs, his dick sliding slickly from sweat and pre-come. Each thrust bumps against your balls, against the sensitive skin behind them, until you're clenching your jaw, humping upwards, backwards, then down again, rubbing at the couch.

Your orgasm starts small, starts in the pit of your belly and expands outward, hot tendrils of pleasure seeping into your blood, twining around your nerve endings until it's nothing but brilliant white heat slamming through you. You yell something, howl into the cushion, and clutch your thighs around Lance's dick, feeling his shout shudder into your bones. When he comes, it's in four or five long pulses, thick, warm liquid slicking between you. He slumps down on you afterward, and while you can hardly breathe, you don't care. It feels incredible to have him there, solid, sweaty weight against you.

He snuffles against you, breath warm and moist against your neck, and mumbles, "love you," and you think that what started out as the worst Christmas in recent history has become the best, bar none.

You're pretty sure you're good with that.

~fin~


End file.
